“He has no face in the front of his head,
In the place where his face ought to grow.”

Bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. The man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. “Get a gait on you now,” he said to Reifsnyder. “I go out at 7.31.”

As the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. Then suddenly he burst out. “How would you like to be with no face?” he cried to the assemblage.

“Oh, if I had to have a face like yours——” answered one customer.

Bainbridge’s voice came from a sea of lather. “You’re kicking because if losing faces became popular, you’d have to go out of business.”

“I don’t think it will become so much popular,” said Reifsnyder.

“Not if it’s got to be taken off in the way his was taken off,” said another man. “I’d rather keep mine, if you don’t mind.”

“I guess so!” cried the barber. “Just think!”

The shaving of Bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. “I wonder what the doctor says to himself?” he observed. “He may be sorry he made him live.”

“It was the only thing he could do,” replied a man. The others seemed to agree with him.

“Supposing you were in his place,” said one, “and Johnson had saved your kid. What would you do?”

“Certainly!”

“Of course! You would do anything on earth for him. You’d take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?”

“I wonder how it feels to be without any face?” said Reifsnyder, musingly.

The man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. “You would do anything on earth for him. You’d take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?”

“No, but look,” said Reifsnyder; “supposing you don’t got a face!”

XV

As soon as Williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began to gesture and talk to himself. An elation had evidently penetrated to his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with gas. He snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of triumphal music. At times, in his progress toward his shanty, he indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. It was to be learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his trials laurelled and proud. He was the unconquerable Alexander Williams. Nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner. His kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his hands—all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world.

On his way he saw Zeke Paterson coming to town. They hailed each other at a distance of fifty yards.

“How do, Broth’ Paterson?”

“How do, Broth’ Williams?”